Dead Fun
by neverbirds
Summary: Welcome to Domino City, where the government is elected by card games and you're never more than eight feet away from a Rat. Where villains can be good guys and the good guys, not so much. AU. YBxM.
1. Prologue

_All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it I have now surpassed. My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone, in fact I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape.  
- _American Psycho, Bret Easton Ellis

* * *

**Prologue:**

"Long live the king!"

Marik grins at him. His arms have hollow indents from where his gold bands have pressed into his skin and his scars itch from the brick wall behind him, so he shifts slightly to lean on a poster. The poster is blue and the man standing proudly has a smile with the teeth coloured in black and a magic marker moustache. His eyes look like Bakura's.

"If you would be so kind, your majesty, we should probably fuck off before somebody finds us."

"Ah, little Marik. What would life be without a little adventure?" Bakura has blood on his teeth. Marik wrinkles his nose.

"Safe?"

"Boring," Bakura corrects. Marik watches the flicker of sunlight on his paper white skin as he brushes himself down. Marik glances at the body between them.

"Hey, is he dead? And don't call me little, I'm taller than you."

"That's because I have no body, idiot. And no, he's breathing, unfortunately."

Marik turns and walks away. Bakura has no choice but to follow. Marik's right, he is a little taller, and it takes a small little run to catch up with his stride, and places a hand on the back of his neck.

"Hey!" Marik jumps away. "Red isn't my colour, do you mind?"

"Nothing wrong with getting your hands dirty."

"Bakura, your hand is covered in blood and – snot. It's disgusting. I really rather you wouldn't."

Bakura leans in close and licks all the way down his neck. Marik picks up his pace. So does Bakura.

"Hey, I got the card I wanted. What do you want to do today?"

"Ignore you."

"That's not very nice. I came back from the dead to keep you company, you know."

"Bakura, nobody likes to be _haunted._ That's kind of the point."

"My goals remain unfulfilled and I linger in this world as a spirit to avenge my enemies and –"

"I know, I know, rule the world and all that. But do you really need to do that with _card games_?"

Bakura pouts. "The Pharaoh does."

"The _Pharaoh_," Marik gives him a pointed look, "is probably still around to keep you out of trouble."

Bakura stands straight haughtily. "Look, do you want my help or not? Because as much as I enjoy punching strangers in the face and stealing their deck, you really don't seem all that impressed."

Marik's step falters, but only for a second.

"No," he says with a slight hesitation. Slight. "Look where fighting got me before –"

"That wasn't fighting, that was murder –"

" Shut up. My point is, I don't know why we don't just control the guards and get them to bring the Items to us."

"Because we need the Rod to do that, stupid." Bakura knocks on his head for effect. "And to get the Rod we need to duel. And to duel, we need rare cards. Do you see where I'm going here?"

Marik grits his teeth.

"You're awfully talkative for a dead person."

There's a silence.

"Bakura?"

Marik turns to look into soft eyes, like pudding. He begins to choke. Ryou manages a watery smile before coughing.

"Fuck you, thief king," he mutters. Soft brown melts into blood and it still somehow amazes him, that they look so different in the same body but still somehow exactly the same. It's something in the way they hold the skin around their mouth, the way they stand, how the lines around their eyes are shaped. "You really shouldn't do that to him, you know. I don't think it's very healthy."

"Are you saying you'd prefer his company?", Bakura smirks, but something behind his eyes is insecure. He throws a casual arm around slender shoulders and Mark thinks – dear God. The proximity brings them to a more casual pace. He's not really sure how to answer that.

"I think it's safer to stay away from the man with two people living inside his head, generally."

"I don't have multiple dissociative disorder, if that's what you're getting at." Bakura's arm is still around his shoulders. "In my mind, the more the merrier."

"In _Ryou's_ mind, I imagine two's company."

Bakura smiles, and Marik can't help but hope it's genuine.

* * *

There's blood on his hands, and no matter how much he scrubs and scrubs he can't get it off. Marik hates that. He's kneeling on the floor wiping his hands over and over on rich blue velvet but it remains untouched. He vaguely hears laughter, somewhere in the distance, so he looks up at the sky and sees Bakura. He's wearing a crown and jerks the velvet cloak away.

"Don't touch," he demands. Bakura's voice booms. He's as tall as a house, maybe. Or Marik is tiny. He can't tell from down here. "That's my line," he squeaks out, but the giant ignores him. He's looking at something in the distance. "What? What?" he tries, tugging his tiny hands on Bakura's trousers but he ignores him.

"Fee, fi, fo, fum," his voice is like marble, or a castle, something tangible but inhuman in its grandeur. "I smell the blood of an Egyptian."

Marik stands up, growing and growing and growing as he does so. It exhausts him, so he leans on Bakura, but can't feel it. Like he's asking for support from air. Like a ghost passed through him.

The world shifts, and suddenly it's no longer him and Bakura, and Marik can't help but feel a twinge of – what? Relief? Irritation? They're surrounded by angels and this time Marik knows he's dreaming. Faceless men are sewing wings onto rag doll bodies. "They don't give them halos," Bakura claims knowingly, "because they'll choke on them."

Marik doesn't like this dream. He rarely does. He squeezes his eyes shut but when he opens them, all the angels around him are dead.

"There's something on the horizon," Bakura whispers.

"Don't be so fucking cryptic," he shakes his head and looks where Bakura's cold black eyes have rested. All Marik can see is darkness, until suddenly it's not, and he's looking at himself reflected back in the icy black. He looks exactly the same only different. He's slightly thinner, worn out. There's a cut on his lip. He looks at Bakura's reflection, surprised to see he has one. This isn't the first time Bakura visited his mind, after all. The fucking vampire. Bakura looks like Bakura, only his golden crown is silver. Oh – no, it's made of teeth. Bakura's eyes meet his in the reflection, seemingly unaware of the jaw above his head waiting to swallow him whole. Bakura smiles and it's softer than usual. No teeth. Where did they go? – Oh.

"Oh, fuck," and suddenly his dirty hands aren't the problem. There's teeth everywhere, all over his skin, razor sharp blades, little angry pebbles filling him up from outside in ripping right through his stomach until he's torn in half like a trading card and he can't scream can't scream needs to yell and oh God why won't he just _die_

"Better luck next time," Bakura shrugs.

* * *

_AN: If you remember my previous chaptered story "An Omen in the Bone" which I deleted then a, you are a fantastic person for following my fic for so long, and b, a year ago I promised I would rewrite it to be less pretentious, have minimal OCs and generally be, you know, better. So, here it is. I have no idea where I'm going, but it's definitely somewhere. Let's see how my first real chaptered fic ever goes!_


	2. Chapter One

Things will never be the same again. Things will never be the same again. Things will never be the same again.

If Ryou had one wish – well. Ryou doesn't like to dwell on that; he knows he'll never be lucky enough for a miracle. He clutches the Ring in his sweaty palms, unconscious and familiar. I missed you. I hate you. I need you. You ruined my life.

You're a monster. You know me better than anybody.

I'm glad you're back.

I wish I could get rid of you forever.

Ryou closes his eyes, fingers gliding over the unmarked metal. He always comes back, doesn't He? He will always come back. Even if it's not for you.

He stares at his hand. Watches the tiny bones move underneath his skin when he flexes his fingers, traces his veins with a finger, tries to untangle the lines of his palm in his mind. This is my body, he thinks. My body, on the market to rent. Pre-payment of cruel actions and a feeling of helplessness. My body, sold for a magical ring.

"Hey Bakura! We're going to go find Teá, are you coming?"

Yugi is so lucky, Ryou spits in his mind. Yugi doesn't have You in his head. Yugi doesn't have his body used. Yugi has the weight of the world on his shoulders, not a demon lurking inside his eyes and mouth and heart.

Instead, the corners of Ryou's mouth curve upwards to mirror Yugi's, and his eyes close slightly. I don't want You to see him happy, darkside. I know you hate that.

What Ryou wants to say is: why are you so nice to me when I tried to kill you so many times.

Instead he says, "sure."

"Are you okay today, Bakura? You seem really distant…"

"I'm fine, thank you, Yugi. Just excited for the announcement!"

"I know, I know. We should go watch the duel, I don't want to miss the end!"

It doesn't take them too long to find Teá. She's sat with Tristan and Joey on the stairs by City Hall, watching the duel on a giant screen. She's drinking something sickly looking that gives Ryou a headache when he takes a sip. He feels awkward and out of place.

"I didn't know you smoked, Tristan," he offers instead. Tristan shrugs and takes a drag, looking oddly grown up and young all at once.

"He smokes because Devlin smokes," Joey sighs, "and thinks it looks cool. He wants to impress my sister or something dumb."

"I do not. Is she… here, by the way?"

Teá laughs, then coughs, then smiles up at Yugi. She has a beautiful smile, Ryou thinks, and doesn't really care if his darkside heard or not.

"Shh, shh," Yugi's eyes are shining, "I think Jones is about to play a trap card."

A cloud moves and the sun shines on the clock tower, the glare making it impossible to watch the screen. Yugi moans.

"Come on dude, they've both still got like half their life points left. We've got a while, why don't we go look at the stalls and get some lunch?" Joey places both his hands on Yugi's shoulders and steers him away. Teá smiles and slips her hand into Ryou's.

"Let's go join them, ok? You look like you need some of Domino's finest hot dogs anyway!"

It perplexes him, why they're so nice.

They must know that he – it's back. This thing. Yugi looked oddly empty without the Puzzle and now he fits just right again, cradling his best friend in his hands as he walks and breathes and sleeps. He wants to talk to Yugi and shake him and demand why they had to come back. What he really wants is to know if the Pharaoh is back because they needed each other. He wants to know if they missed each other so much, Ryou's body was just a price to pay. But there's never time, never a chance, and darkside is always listening.

What Ryou wants to know – really, really wants to know, deep down inside, a burning question that for once in his life is his and only _his _– is whether they really ever left at all.

He touches the Ring again, seeking familiarity or - comfort. It burns. He's been listening.

He's surrounded by colour and he can't help but smile; the whirlwind of cerise and sapphire and sunshine yellow, the taste of spice in the air, sugary incandescence weaving with laughter in the atmosphere. It's a beautiful day.

I can't be completely lost to You yet, he mutters as he eyes his friends. You never could understand simple pleasures that didn't involve pain. You never felt anything that wasn't disgust.

"Who do you think will win?" Teá was right, these are great hot dogs, but Joey has tomato sauce in his teeth and it reminds Ryou too much of blood, so he turns away.

"Oh, Jones, definitely," Tristan says, "he had the best campaign."

"But it's not the campaign that matters, it's the duel –"

" – actually, I think you'll find it's the candidates skill and belief in –"

"Shut up and enjoy the day off school, Yugi."

"Well, I don't agree with it anyway. Who's to say that the winner would be any good as Mayor?"

"Because! Because that's what duels are real tests of, good character and –"

Ryou isn't listening. Ryou is straining his eyes against the crowd because he saw a flash of bronze that he's come to know all too well. He can feel an anger in his edges and he hates it, hates to feel angry at anybody but Him. The Ring burns again, and a darkness expands in his skull when he sees Marik slip in and out of the crowd quietly. He catches sight of Ryou and his friends – his _friends _– and stiffens before slithering away again. The Ring burns harsher and leaves a mark on his shirt.

"Oh, sod off," Ryou sighs. "I'm not getting involved in – whatever you two are doing. Stop bothering me, just for today."

You promised, he adds silently.

Ryou likes to pretend he doesn't care that his darkside has a – an acquaintance. But he does. It starts in his chest, tangled and intangible, before blooming under his skin through to his fingertips. It's not that he's worried about what they do, or if they'll hurt his friends. It's not that he hates his body being used to such little consequence, it's really not. And it's definitely not that he wants to be His friend – God, anything but – but there's a certain element of security in knowing that you're needed. That you're the only one. And if there's one thing – just one thing – that he's learned since he first held burning gold in his hand so many years ago, it's that Ryou Bakura does not like to share.

Sometimes, when he's not trying to listen, he can hear what his darkside is thinking. No – that's not right. He can feel what he's feeling. When he's trapped inside his own mind with no control over his body, he knows when the demon inside of him has touched the back of Marik's back or made him laugh. Worse is when they're arguing because he can feel his own face crack into a smile and he wants to scream and scream because this is _his body _and his darkside shouldn't be using it to make _friends. _Instead he calls Marik pretty boy or threatens him with a knife and Marik waves a nonchalant hand and that's that. In Ryou's life, there's a lot of instead. There's a lot of forgotten intention. He guesses that's true about his darkside, too.

Ryou can't feel his darkside. That's the worst of all – usually when he mentions His presence there's a sharp pain behind his eyes and in his tongue, but not today. He's hiding somewhere. Ryou traces the edges of the Ring with his forefinger but it's cold. It's lifeless. It's a hunk of metal strapped around his neck like a noose.

Ryou wonders what He's thinking. Ryou wonders if He's lonely.

His melancholy is interrupted by cheers and confetti; of Yugi's gasp and Teás laughter and the thump of Tristan's arm on his back.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a disembodied voice booms out, crackling and vacant, "I am pleased to announce the champion of the duel and the new mayor of Domino City, Mr Daniel Hallowes!"

* * *

"I don't know why it's such a big fucking deal anyway," Marik mutters to himself, his hand slipping from one pocket to his. He's getting into such bad habits since Bakura came back.

But really, he doesn't. Leaders never really lead. They're controlled by the people, and if they aren't, the people kill the leader anyway. Trust him, he's speaking from experience.

He wants to pretend he's glad for the day off. Bakura's host has the day off, and there's a fair, and all his friends are going, and considering Bakura spends seventy five percent of the time controlling his body just to annoy Marik, he convinced Bakura to let his host have this one.

The problem is, it's pretty fucking boring. Marik spent too long in the dark to be drawn in by flashing lights and noise. It's a bit too much. He feels too exposed. And, worst of all, he's left with too much time to think. Marik spends a lot of time inside other people's minds so that he doesn't have to be in his own, because his mind is filled with meaningless hieroglyphs and Bakura's not-really-his eyes and his father's head mounted like a proud hunt complete with golden plaque; Ishtar, loving father, murdered by beloved heir. And Marik has already gotten enough to feel guilty and confused about, thank you very much, without dragging his past into this New Life that doesn't involve days of scripture and healing sacrificial wounds.

Marik feels guilty about a lot of things, actually: betraying Bakura is high up there, along with Never Actually Showing him his Scars. Disappointing his sister is another. Feeling pleased when Bakura controls his host's body because he enjoys his company – now there's something. Marik would hate it if he was locked away in his mind because he was being controlled by his Dark Side. Marik would rather die, actually. Would rather his father came back from the grave to scar his back all over again before impaling him with the bloody Rod. Marik doesn't need friends, doesn't need anybody but himself and his brother. And he certainly does not need Bakura.

So why is it, then, when he saw a flash of white and gold in the crowd that his heart jumped into his throat and pushed against the back of his tongue and teeth with a broken 'Bakura!'? A 'Bakura' that never makes it past his lips, because Yugi is there, and the two he controlled, and it's not really Bakura only it is _really _Bakura because the one he cares about isn't even a person.

This sucks, Marik concludes. He's gotten himself into another situation where he has no idea where he's going and no idea why he's letting himself be dragged along by his hair by that guy all over again. So he's going to ignore it until it goes away. Just like his dreams. Just like the memory of his brother's warm gaze and his body when he catches sight of himself in a reflection.

Those dreams –

Well. Bakura doesn't like to talk about it, so Marik tries not to think about it.

They're all different so it's hard to say why they're the same. It's something about the cold sweat in his sheets and the taste of ash and blood and something holier than thou imprinted on his tongue for days afterwards. It's something in the way the images move, never stable and never really there. He's had nightmares before, sure - Freud would probably love to read his dream diary – but never like this. Never like he's being _shown _something. Never like it's a riddle he has to figure out. Marik never did like having to do things for himself.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to announce the champion of the duel and the new mayor of Domino City, Mr Daniel Hallowes!"

That name is of such little consequence to Marik, he thinks he might cry. It's just a name, and names don't mean anything. It's just another obstacle for the two of them to slit the throat of in order to regain the Items.

Marik feels very, very alone amongst the cheering fools around him.

He wishes Bakura were here.

He thinks to himself: oh, fuck.

* * *

_AN: I changed my username! Can you believe it? I figured if I was making a ~comeback~ with a new style and new mindset, I might as well have a new username. In regards to this chapter, I apologise if it came across as boring. I'm not used to writing anything that you can't read in seven minutes and exposition is not my strong point. I imagine future chapters will be longer, too, I just wanted to get this out of the way really because these are the parts where I have no idea what I'm doing!_


	3. Chapter Two

Marik had long ago decided that ignorance was bliss, and it would work a lot better if people would stop trying to make him see sense. His sister phones at around seven every evening, after she finishes work and before she leaves the office. Sometimes she leaves messages, like 'Marik how long can you keep up this pretence' and 'Marik, I thought I meant more to you than this' and worst of all, 'little brother, tell me you're not in trouble again. Call me.' He has a pile of bills with angry red initials piled up by the doorstep, and his hot water doesn't work. He doesn't know how to live a normal life, and that would be bloody well _fine, _if Bakura didn't spend every waking second reminding him that _you need to water the plants _and _maybe you should patch things up with your sister, we'd get the Items much quicker this way _and then Marik would say _she'd never give us them anyway _and what he doesn't say is _well I'd rather her hate me than steal the Items from under her nose when all it will do is break her heart again. _

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," Marik sighs. He can hear Bakura's startled eyes behind him.

"How did you know I was here?" Bakura pulls the chair next to Marik out and it screams across the floor.

"I know everything," Marik says. His voice is monotone and without its usual vigour, which is okay because he knows Bakura won't ask why. Bakura doesn't ask, Bakura demands.

"You need to clean your kitchen, this is disgusting," Bakura wipes a coffee ring with his finger. Marik doesn't reply, because he doesn't usually wake up to find Bakura blinking sleepily at him unless something has happened. "And your bedroom, actually," Bakura adds with a smug twitch on his lips. Marik raises an eyebrow.

"What were you doing in my bedroom?"

"Looking for something." Marik closes his eyes, envisioning his room, the empty cupboards and unmade bed, trying to imagine what Bakura could possibly want. Marik hasn't used that room for a while now, and Bakura knows that, from the leathery hollows in his skull and scarlet veins of his eyes. He checks the clock on the microwave, flashing with every second like it's telling him something urgent.

"Shouldn't Ryou be in school?" Bakura pulls a face, nose crinkling and eyes narrowing. He looks unnervingly childish, and Marik wants to laugh, but there's a part of him still a little scared of his temper and it is too early in the morning to deal with him.

"Probably, but I have something to tell you first."

"You just don't want to sit through another maths lesson," Marik teases, wishing he weren't in this situation, mocking Bakura about algebra just to see that stupid face he pulled again.

"This is more important than Ryou and his stupid school, ok?" Bakura snaps. Marik sits upright, putting his fingers to his head in mock salute.

"Sir, yes sir."

Bakura growls, but edges closer, elbows scraping on wood; what can Marik do but move closer still, allow himself to be drawn into those eyes and hint of teeth as he snarls?

"We're going to take the Items. Tonight."

There's a silence for a moment, and Bakura's ring clinks slightly on the buttons of his shirt when he breathes.

"Or," Marik begins, but Bakura puts a finger to his lips to silence him.

"No ifs, buts, and definitely not or. This is happening."

"_Or," _he glares, "We could _not _go, and we could _not _be shot to death."

"As tempting as that sounds, Ishtar, I am taking the Items tonight whether you help me or not."

Or not, Marik pleads inside his own mind. Or not.

If Marik had one wish, he'd wish that Bakura didn't have such a sway over him. Well, if he's wishing for things, he'd wish he were born a normal boy with loving parents and no sacrificial birthright, because then he wouldn't be psychologically damaged beyond repair, and he wouldn't know Bakura, and he certainly wouldn't carry this heavy burden of guilt and shame that causes him to do anything the stupid demon wants him to. He could say "I'm sorry," but this seems so much easier.

Besides, out of everybody he's fucked over, Bakura is the one who came back. And from beyond the grave, too. Now that's friendship.

"Why me?" Marik wants to ask. "Why tonight?" Marik says instead.

"Think about it, dipshit. New mayor was elected yesterday, right? After all that nasty Pegasus business, people are a bit edgy, so they're making everything as bright and shiny and loud as possible to distract all the precious children. So, they're having that big inauguration speech tonight, and my guess is, it'll be heavily guarded." Marik stares at him. "What? Sometimes I watch the news."

"I don't believe you. Since when did you know the current affairs of Domino's Festivals? You don't even know whenRyou's birthday –" Bakura's face twitches, just a tiny bit, and Marik knows that face from bone to birthmark underneath the right side of Ryou's chin. "Oh. _Oh." _

"Yes, well, he wanted to help."

"But – _why?" _Bakura shifts in his chair, pushes back slightly and Marik instantly misses the loss of personal space he didn't even notice Bakura was taking up. He coughs. "Don't you _dare _disappear inside that stupid fucking Ring."

"Actually," Bakura sighs. "He wants us to get this over with so we no longer have business together."

Marik is silent, and he knows from the way Bakura keeps cracking his knuckles and shifting his knee that it's really unnerving him, so he keeps quiet even longer.

"Well," Marik says airily, and the microwave is still angrily flashing eight-fifty-eight at him. "Isn't somebody acting like a bitter boyfriend." The ring seems to catch a glint of sunlight, and in a way he's glad Ryou is eavesdropping.

"Look – "

"No, no, I'll see you tonight. I'll meet you at the museum in about twelve hours. Some of us have class to get to, and probably homework later, and tea to have with mummy." He kneads his hands into the back of Bakura's shirt when he stands, dragging him up and pushes him out the door. "Yugi-tachi-kun are probably worried about you, after all," his voice breaks and slams the door.

He wants to say, Ryou has no _right _to say who you can and cannot see, but the worst thing is he does, he has every right, the right to his body and his freedom and above everything, Ryou has the right to personal space which he's not had since he was 8 years old. He wants to want to empathise with him. He wants to say, listen, I know how you feel. But the thing is, he doesn't really. What he wants to do shake him and say, listen, I know how you feel, because I've been there and done that a thousand times over. You think having a murderous demon living inside your head and using your body is bad? Let me take your precious ring and scar _your _back and see how you damn well feel about it now. He wants to say, cut out the poor pathetic British transfer student routine; because I've seen your eyes look a lot like his. Marik wants a lot of things. Marik wants all of this stupid mess to go away, he wants to close his eyes and sleep and wake up in his sister's arms with the smell of his brother making him soup in his periphery and he wants to feel loved, but instead he's stuck with an Ancient Egyptian who isn't even a person, not really, and now it turns out even he doesn't want him around anymore.

He sniffles slightly, then rubs his dry eyes, and makes himself more coffee. I don't know him at all, he sullenly tells his kettle. He might even be a woman for all I know. He might not have ever been human. He's certainly not any more. And then he straightens himself up, deletes his messages, and throws his pile of unopened envelopes in the trash.

* * *

Marik is outside the museum at just gone eight thirty. The sky is still lightly illuminated, the dusky blue creating an illusion of fog or smoke over the city. Marik likes it this way; it's easy to pass unnoticed without being feared. And he sees well in the dark; it's probably the only skill he can offer Bakura at this point. Without his Rod, Marik is nothing. He doesn't know what's worse: being nothing, worth nothing, or being responsible with so much power. A year ago he could have answered that question with the hearty laugh of a dozen duellists he was controlling; now, he's really not so sure.

"There you are, sugarplum," Marik turns with a grimance. "I missed you."

"I didn't miss you – " Marik begins, but stops when he sees soft, slumped shoulders and hazelnut eyes. "Oh. Hello."

"Hello," Ryou doesn't smile, like usual, and Marik is harrowed with the sudden memory that Bakura isn't really, real. This is Ryou, and it's Ryou's body, and Ryou's eyes and skin and smile. It's Ryou's blood. Bakura is just a sharp tongue and cruel intentions. Ryou is a person, whole and round, and Marik has never wanted to punch somebody so badly in his entire life. Marik wouldn't call himself a violent person, not really, because he wants to see blood on those teeth of his and feel his knuckles crack against bone. He wants to rip into Ryou and climb inside and see what it's like to be Bakura. It's startling, actually, the ferocity Marik feels bubbling in the back of his mind when he looks at the soft corners of their mouth.

"Bad brains," Marik says aloud, then looks into his startled face and coughs. "I get it," he covers. "I'm bad brains. Got to keep the missus away, right? We'll take the Items, I get the Rod, you get the rest, I take off back to Egypt to hide back in my tomb and never see daylight again, and especially not him. Got it. Deal made, whatever." He's babbling because he can't stop. His mouth is working faster than his brain because it feels like there's something tugging at it, pulling and pulling from the inside until he's all sucked up into the vast black hole framed by his skull. He tries to smile at Ryou, but there are too many teeth.

"Well," Ryou looks at him unnervingly, his hardened façade wavering. "You can still, you know, live in this country and stuff. Just, as long as we're clear. This is my body – "Marik steps forward, only half meaning to, thinking about it but not putting the action into place. He doesn't feel himself, only he's never been better. Ryou swallows. "This is my body, and I get some say over it, and I can't – I really can't miss anymore school."

"I get it."

"And I think – I think he's been really scaring my mother."

Marik feels a lump in his throat and he doesn't know how it got there. When he swallows, it grows bigger, black tar sticky in his throat because his words are too heavy and he not strong enough to get them out.

"Right. You're right." He opens his mouth again, then closes it, then opens it again. "And – you should look after your mother, you know. They're – they're important."

"Right." Ryou looks into his eyes, mouth curved downwards slightly and eyebrows narrowed, and Marik watches as his skin tightens around his bones and his eyes narrow into hard pebbles the colour of an old oak tree, or a mountain. Impossibly old and slightly terrifying in its silent strength.

"I'm not even going to ask what you were talking about," he says quietly, "because I know it was about me, and although my curiosity is burning, we have business to attend to. Shall we?"

Marik nods, and is careful not to touch Bakura when he brushes past. Bakura grabs his hips and pulls him backwards, and Marik feels like he might die.

"I don't know what's going on," Bakura breathes in his ear. His voice is perilously low, and Marik had almost forgotten just who Bakura is. He's a man of crime, a man of murder and revenge, and he's more than dangerous. "But I need you to focus. Ok?"

Marik nods, and he can feel hot breath on his neck and lips in his hair when it moves.

"I need you to distract your sister, and cause a scene. Just like we planned, do you remember?"

"Yes, I remember," Marik sighs. "She always works late on Fridays. I hope tonight is no different."

"If it is, then good for us. Less to deal with," he says without emotion, but he looks in Marik's eyes from under his hair and Marik can see the flashing red light of his voicemail and downturned picture frames reflected in his frown. Marik blinks, and nods, and turns to open the door with a key he copied a long time ago.

"Give me five minutes," he says with a smile, and when Bakura half smiles back his heart jumps into his throat.

I'm in trouble, he mutters to himself, and he's only half talking about crime.

* * *

"Sir, I assure you, we heard all seven were here."

"There are _five."_

"Yes, well – "

"I will kill to get all seven. Do you hear?"

"Loud and clear, sir. But there's not much we can do at the moment –"

"Get me Ishtar, and get her now."

"But sir, don't you think you're overreacting? Not many people even know there are seven, and five is enough for the inauguration to show that –"

"Get me Ishtar or you're fired."

"Right away, sir."

"And don't question me. Nobody questions me."

"Understood, Mr Hallowes.

* * *

Oh, fuck, Bakura thinks as he hides in the dark shadows of the room. Fuck.

His Ring glints menacingly on his chest. Ryou, he whispers, I am going to fucking kill you, you fucker.

He watches the two men touch the glass guarding the items from them, from Bakura, from the rest of the world. Ultimate destruction guarded by a thin sheet of melted sand (it's almost poetic, in a way, when Bakura thinks hard about home and fire and desert). That's the human race for you, Bakura tells Ryou in his mind. You are really determined not to believe in what you can't see.

There's a twinge of pain in his chest as he watches the men stalk proudly around the Items, and he realises the Ring is burning. Bakura manages a soft smile in the dark, the one he saves for Ryou in rare moments when his host says something like 'Damn, I wish you'd killed him' or 'I don't mind you using my body, not really, just try not to tell my mother you want to slice the neighbours open'.

He watches from the shadows, angry that he's reduced to a life of this, watching others with the Items from the dark creases of Ryou's soul. He strokes the ring absentmindedly, angry that six out seven Items are in the same place this man seems to want them so badly. Two days ago he was a nobody; he wins a duel and suddenly he has the right to the Items? I've won lots of duels, thousands of duels, and all I've ever had is two of them. Ryou hushes him in his mind, and Bakura takes that stupid smile back.

One of the men walks off, the guard, and Bakura thinks – Oh. Oh, Marik. The word 'Ishtar' rings in his ears, hollow in the near empty room. He thinks – this guy isn't so tough, I could take him. Use his head to smash the glass and skin his face with the Rod, then enter his soul with the Key and make him forget. Turn him into a blubbering, pathetic mess who can't even remember his own name. But that would raise too many questions, ones he'll never be able to answer, and he doesn't want to get Ryou into trouble. Besides, he's probably got a Marik to save now. Idiot.

"Seven mystical Items… I wonder where you are, Ring?" Bakura jolts at the sound of his Home, what is so close to being his real name. "Puzzle?"

"Right behind you," he whispers into the cold, and Hallowes turns on his heel with a fearful look on his face.

"Who is there?" Bakura is silent, angry and powerful, magic building in his veins and conducted through fake gold. He stands perfectly still, this Hallowes, suit pressed and cutting into the skin of his neck. Bakura matches him, crouched behind a sphinx, behind the shadow of a sarcophagus, and is suddenly stricken with the realisation that everything he calls home is long gone, reduced to nothing more than a few borrowed artefacts in a museum. The Items are the only thing he has left, their pitiful existence quivering with resonance in his long forgotten humanity. When Hallowes turns back to the Items, eyes tracing over the Key, the Necklace, the Eye – something in Bakura's throat snaps and releases into the air as a snarl and his muscles tighten. He's impossibly aware of every movement, every disturbance in the air, hanging onto the ground by his toes and ready to grab his neck and break it, take his head in his hands and crush it with his palms.

A flash of gold catches his eye, and when he looks up Marik is shaking his head at him ever so slightly, and Bakura relaxes his bones back onto the ground, never looking away from those amethyst eyes the colour of rich, royal velvet in the dark. Marik is being held by the guide from before, fingers digging into flesh below his arm band, fingering it ever so slightly with greedy fat fingers.

"Look what I found," he sneers to Hallowes. "I found a baby Ishtar, too."

Hallowes looks at him and clutches the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

"So? I want the sister, you fucking idiot."

"It's a good thing she's here, then," a rich, smooth voice calls out. Ishizu steps forward, and Bakura hasn't seen her in a very long time. Not since – not since the Incident, anyway. She looks tired.

"Listen, Ishtar, I demanded all seven Items and there are five. Where are the others?"

"With their rightful owners, I imagine," Ishizu sighs, and rests a hand on Marik's shoulder. "And would you please take your hands off my brother." The guard complies, but stands close still, and Bakura is itching to reveal himself, to point at his Ring and say 'I'm here, you fucker, but you're not getting me.'

"This is not what we agreed."

"Actually, we never agreed anything. Why would I give you the Items? People have died fighting for these. Why would I hand them over to you?"

"Because – because I need them!"

"For a speech? I hardly think so." She narrows her eyes at him, the same eyes as Marik's, only harder and darker and Bakura is almost terrified of her in that moment. Almost. "These Items wield powerful magic, as I'm sure you're aware. I am hardly going to hand them over to you."

The air settles in the silence, and only Ryou's mumbling in his mind and Marik's eyes are stopping him from burning the room around them. He hates this place, with its plaques and information, with its perfectly preserved pots and jewels. He's itching to leave, to run, to feel wind on his skin and laughter stuck somewhere in his throat. He's tired of being still. He's been still for centuries, for millennia, and he wants to _move_ with a force he's never quite known. History is repeating itself, and history hasn't worked out quite so well for Bakura before.

"Then I guess I'm just going to have to take them," Hallowes is calm, and Bakura wishes he were closer, wishes he could sense what Hallowes was about to do in the seconds it takes for him to tighten his muscles and clench his fists. But Marik is quicker; dodges underneath his punch and smashes the glass with his palms.

"Fucker," he spits, and kicks Hallowes somewhere between his knees. Bakura hurtles forward and grabs the guard about to bring his gun down on Marik's head, fisting his hair and biting his neck when he exposes the flesh.

"Marik!" Ishizu cries out, and in the split second it takes for Marik to look at his sister with a startled expression, Hallowes regains his posture and grabs Marik by the hair.

"Nobody touches me," he growls, "especially not little vermin like you."

Bakura sees red, and then gold, and grabs Hallowes' neck with his right hand and his wrist with the other, forcing him to let go of Marik. He smashes his body into the display board, the remaining glass showering over them.

"And nobody touches my friends," he spits on his face, wanting to taste his blood, wants to crush his neck and chew on the tendons he finds beneath. "Especially not slimy, good for nothing bastards like you."

The guard grabs Ishizu, and Marik chokes out half of her name before Bakura hushes him, never taking his eyes off Hallowes' mouth working up and down and listening to his fraught breaths with a burning satisfaction.

"Get the fuck off him, you albino bastard, or I can't guarantee her safety. Do you hear, idiot? Do you understand?"

Bakura doesn't have to look to know Marik has closed his eyes, to know that his fists have balled up childishly, that his body is stiff and he's compartmentalising and counting to ten. Bakura lets Hallowes go, and walks steadily backwards to Marik.

"You have the Ring," Hallowes smirks.

"I am the Ring," Bakura says, calmly. He inches his fingers down Marik's arm, grabs his wrist, and whispers "Run".

And they do; the guard's footsteps fall thunderously behind them, Hallowes close behind, screaming 'thief'. The corridors seem impossibly dark but Marik leads the way, eyes trained for this, preparing his whole life for this. A gunshot sounds somewhere in their periphery, but it seems distant, like ancient history. Marik starts to laugh. It's uncontrollable, starting in his head and drizzling through his body until he's shaking. Bakura grins; it's wildly inappropriate, and Gods, he's missed this. His fingers clutch further into Marik's wrist, marking his approval. Their footsteps echo on marble tiles, pillars marking the exit and they tumble into the lights of the city. Somewhere in the distance there's a low thrum of noise, of celebration, dimly discernible in the evening air.

Bakura pulls Marik into the dark fold between a house and the museum gift shop and presses his body into Marik's so they fit. He can hear footsteps, somewhere, and the hushed tone of anger.

"Hey, what my host said," he whispers somewhere near Marik's neck. You know I wasn't actually going to do what he wanted, right?" Marik is silent, but Bakura is getting used to that. He clears his throat. "Well, that was a useful endeavour anyway."

"You have no idea," Marik whispers back, voice edged with an excited glint. Bakura looks up, and then down, and see's the Rod clutched in Marik's hand. "And my sister has the necklace. She took it when I smashed the glass."

Bakura feels giddy, on the precipice of something new.

"Besides," Marik continues. "You can't get rid of me now. We're wanted criminals, thief king." He seems to purr, and Bakura feels it somewhere in his stomach.

"It's been a while since I had a challenge. Beating the Mayor to the Items and feasting on his corpse should probably do the trick," Bakura rests his forehead against Marik's and closes his eyes.

He touches his Ring and feels the burn of Ryou underneath his fingertips, feels Marik's breath on their face, and laughs.

* * *

_AN: I really, really hope you guys like this chapter :3 I'm so unsure about it; I've never really written any kind of action or plot before, and as the harlequin demon. said, "all arsty beauty flies out the window in chaptered fics". I was going to split this chapter into two but I thought fuck it, this is the catalyst for the rest of the fic, just roll with it. This chapter is twice as long as the previous, and I've never written anything chaptered before – how did this feel for chapter length? Is it too long, or ok? Am I asking too many questions? Blarrgh. Also, I can't write Bakura apparently. Go figure. (And and I wrote this without any internet connection, so I couldn't research properly, so apologies for anything inaccurate and yes shutting up now). _


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